


but heaven knows you're heaven sent

by letterfromathief



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Punk, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 09:10:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7678573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromathief/pseuds/letterfromathief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s here for the music. Or maybe he’s here for Will.</p>
<p>Or perhaps he’s only here when she snatches the lighter out of his hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but heaven knows you're heaven sent

**Author's Note:**

> punk au inspired by [this gorgeous piece](http://bradburycharlene.tumblr.com/post/132621045466/cool-kids-are-cool). might be part of a larger verse...someday
> 
> _(i comb the crowd and pick you out, my mouth moves too fast for you to figure it out  
>  it starts eyes closed to fingers crossed to “I swear, I say.”)_

 

Cigarettes always seem to get the better of him.

Killian supposes he doesn’t need them. He’s perfected the _Look_ already: leather jacket, black skinny jeans, and dark boots to match. He has the tattoos, has the hair not long enough to tie up but just long enough to fall in his face that he has to comb his fingers through just to keep it out of his eyes - and tousle it perfectly. But a cigarette would be just the thing for him to fumble with when he’s too wrecked to do anything but feel the music.

And he knows he’d look good doing it, but he’s never gotten the hang of it and it remains just the one vice that he’s lacking.

Drugs, Sex, and Rock N’ Roll would be an easier motto to live by if he could just stop dropping his damn lighter (and if he truly considered it a motto to live by and not just something he’s fallen into, something he never aimed for but it was always a slippery slope and he took it all the way down.)

Killian stuffs the cigarette in his mouth and bends to pick up the silver, skull-engraved lighter. He isn’t that much of an asshole to have bought it himself, but he isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth or let Scarlet visibly get to him - and he is enough of an asshole to take it in stride.

“It’s supposed to go in the other end,” she - a deeply humored voice behind him - says.

He straightens up and turns, cigarette between his teeth and a retort on his lips, and it dies, it dies a sudden and painful, croak in his throat death that he has to clear as he meets her gaze. Her dimpled chin is tilted up at him and she has this challenging look in her green eyes, a smile that's just on the edge of intrigued. Without looking away from him once, she tucks her dyed blue hair behind her ears to reveal an array of ear piercings.

Determined not to fall all over himself, Killian holds his tongue and keeps his usual flirtations at bay for the moment while he takes her all in. She does the same, but where he finds himself staring, open mouthed as he rolls his tongue over his lip, she simply gives him a long look and then dismisses him with a shake of her head. A laugh curls her lips and she says, “Smoking isn’t your thing, I gather?”

“Not really,” he admits.

“Here, let me show you?” she says.

She doesn’t wait for an answer to her question, grabbing the lighter from his loosened grip and with a quick flick she has the flame burning bright. She takes his cigarette hand with a firm grasp that he sets his mind wandering in other directions - where her hands could grasp if she wanted to, if she wasn’t preoccupied with lifting his hand so she can set his cigarette alight.

She has a ring on her pinky finger, a lightning bolt struck through a heart; Killian watches her lick her bottom lip, success at lighting his cigarette coloring her with a smile, and understands the sentiment.

“There you go.” She doesn’t drop his hand, just leads it to his mouth. With a soft huff, she says, “You gotta open up, buddy. You can’t smoke it with your mouth shut.”

He opens up.

“Usually, I’m the talkative one,” he says. “But you’ve left me at a loss for words, lass.”

“Oh, boy, accent,” she mutters. Her cheeks go pink a split second after. His swagger is off a bit, a product of the alcohol, her touch, how she smiles around her words, the brilliant green of her eyes, her hair sparkling its blue in the lot lights - but he isn’t so weak at the knees that he can’t notice the tremble of her hand on his.

“Does it bother you?” he asks. “The way my voice lilts with every word?”

“Just take the cig,” she grumbles, her smile hiding beneath her annoyance, but not well enough that he can’t find it when she looks up at him again.

She lets go as he closes his lips around the cigarette and inhales, grateful that he’s gotten his first time out of the way before now. His lungs don’t feel like breathing fire and it doesn’t taste as awful. Still _not_ his thing, but he can tolerate it if only because she’s taking the time to watch him while he does it, her eyes only leaving his the moment he drops the cigarette from his mouth.

“I’m Killian,” he says.

She nods but in lieu of her name, she just bites her lip and glances towards the line. Killian doesn’t press, not for that at least, nods in the direction of the concert stadium and says, “Who are you here for?”

“Everyone,” she says.

She shrugs like it doesn’t matter to her, but her eyes flicker away again.

“Everyone?” he asks.

He intends clarification, truly wants to know _why_ (knows his whys, but hers? He wants to know all of hers), but he hovers closer and her eyelashes flutter seconds before she shakes him off, the sarcasm rolling off her tongue.

“Yeah, I have terrible taste,” she says.

She’s talking about _Killian_ , and they both realize this at the same time, her forehead wrinkling in a frustrated frown while all he can do is smile.

“Not so terrible,” he says with certainty and just the bit of hopefulness he can’t bite back.

Admittedly he doesn’t try to. He takes another drag of his cigarette, exhales, and then drops it to the ground to stomp out the flame beneath his heel.

“That was a waste,” she says.

“I don’t have the stomach for it. I don’t know why I keep trying,” he says.

“Liar,” she says.

He flashes his dimples, dropping his shoulders in a shrug. “Yeah.” Leaning in again, he gives her a slight view into his earlier thoughts as he says, “It helps with The Look.”

“You sound like a scene kid,” she says.

(She isn’t wrong.)

He chuckles. “Aren’t I a little too old for ‘scene kid’?” He narrows his eyes when she smiles softly. “I know I’m too old for ‘kid.’”

“You don’t outgrow the scene. The scene just outgrows you,” she says sagely.

She holds his gaze for a second before she throws her head back, staring into the bright light above. Her laugh is quiet as she chastises herself, “That makes no sense.”

He opens his mouth to disagree but she cuts him off, shaking her head, “Don’t lie.”

“I would never lie to you,” he says.

She blinks at him for second and he’s expecting disbelief, a roll of her eyes, sarcasm even. Instead she says, “I’m Emma.”

The unexpected hits him the same way she does, her name a soft exhale of breath before it becomes words.

“Emma,” he says, testing her name, intentionally lilting it, which doesn’t escape her notice.

“Okay, _accent_ ,” she says, this time her tone annoyed.

“I’ll try to tone it down, Emma.”

He keeps the accent to a minimum at that, taking the silent pause afterward to drink Emma in. She doesn’t shy away under his gaze, and he sees it when she allows herself a moment to indulge in it. She offers him a small smile before she rolls back her shoulders and stretches out her hands like she’s preparing for some kind of fight.

He imagines that might’ve been the same move she made before she stepped off the line to approach him.

“It’s fine. I can’t fault you using your accent to your advantage,” she says.

“My advantage?” he prompts.

She frowns slightly, “Your - people like that. Accents. I -” She frowns deeper. “It doesn’t sound bad.”

“Well, then, let us thank the gods for small favors,” Killian says.

She folds her arms over her chest, looking like she much rather have taken a swing at him than that, but she’s holding herself back.

He finds himself wishing she did take the swing at him, so he prods her more, enunciates every vowel like he’s trying to prove just how very much _not_ from the States he is, “And for the big ones, too?”

“Big ones?” she says cautiously.

“I really needed help lighting that cigarette,” Killian says.

She stares at him and it isn’t until he winks that she laughs and she unwraps her arms to push him gently in the arm. The touch is warm, firm, and doesn’t last nearly as long as it should, as he wants it to.

“You did,” she concedes. She concedes more, even, as she stares at where she touched and says, “Who are you here for?”

“Scarlet.”

Confusion flickers across her expression, and she says, “Is not playing.”

“Is not a band,” Killian says. “Though you wouldn’t be wrong for mistaking him as such given the state of our hotel room.”

“So he’s a friend,” Emma nods understandingly, coaxing a smile out of him as she says, “Or is that stretching it?”

“He draws the line a bit fine between friend and person I'd really love to throttle,” Killian says. To clarify, he adds, “ _He_ wanted to take us to see Skrillex.”

“You don’t appreciate the sound of transformers fucking?” Emma says.

“Is that what that is? Now that you mention it…”

He taps at his chin in consideration, a grin curling his lip when she pushes at him again, and this time her hand lingers and he takes the opportunity to say, “It’s not really what I’d find myself listening to, honestly, love. My musical leanings are more…”

“Eccentric?”

She says it like she's expecting him to extoll on the virtues of baroque music, which he could do, but he's never been of the “impress the pretty girl with knowledge of obscure subjects” variety.  He’s not enough of an asshole for that, and he can only be sincere when he states, “Punk is not eccentric.”

“I thought you were going to say you’re into like...yodeling or....banjos or…” She shrugs. “Bjork.”

“She certainly is a genre all her own.” He smiles as she blushes red. “To be honest, love, I’m here because I’m fond of opening bands.”

“Opening bands in general?” Emma asks.

“I’ve a soft spot for them, yea. When I was a boy, I travelled a lot with my mother. She played drums for the Hookers and they opened for a lot of punk bands,” he explains.

“So, you were stamped punk at birth, then?” she asks.

He grins. “Came out screaming myself raw. She tells me that’s how she knew I was destined for lead vocals. I screamed so much that I put their front man to shame. He still hasn’t forgiven me.”

“I doubt that’s why he hasn’t forgiven you,” Emma says.

It’s too pointed, too much of a reminder. Killian’s mood dips just a bit, at that, and he doesn’t want to acknowledge how far from humored he feels - but he can't be anything but sincere when he says, “You would be right.”

“Right in my doubts?” Emma says.

“Yes,” Killian assures her.

She holds his gaze, probably seeing all the things he hasn’t said; he sees the same reflected in her eyes. Her eyes flicker once to his prosthetic, and he thought she hadn’t noticed so she’s obviously better at pretending than most people are. Still, it isn’t pity that crosses his features nor morbid curiosity. She just catalogues it like she catalogued his inability to light a cigarette.

He flexes the fingers on his good hand, wondering what she’ll do if he reaches out.

She turns away and he dashes the thought, closing his hand in a fist, fingers digging into his palms. He follows her line of sight to a group around their age. One of them tips back a beer, another tries to tip back two at the same time to the cheering of several of the group. Emma sighs as she turns back, “Like the doubt that I have that this isn't going to end with a beer spilled all over me?”

“That happen often?”

“Enough that I considered wearing a raincoat.”

Killian laughs at that and a giggle escapes her as well. She sways forward, and he leans in just a bit closer, enough that the space between them isn’t simply space anymore. It’s just the last few inches keeping him from kissing her the way he really wants to now that her laughter is easing and she’s smiling at him a bit softer and looking up at him with something similar echoing in her eyes.

“The yellow would’ve offset the blue nicely,” he says, looking to her hair.

“My raincoat is red,” Emma corrects him.

“Blue hair, red coat...what a sight you would’ve made.”

“Yeah,” Emma agrees with a roll of her eyes.

What a sight she makes, he starts to say, but it is unnecessary when he keeps staring at her. She stares back with the same searching eyes he’s sure he's giving her. Feeling his phone vibrate, Killian breaks their gazes and pulls it out to a text from Will. They’re letting people in apparently. Will’s apt to leave him behind and not be found until the night is done and the lot’s empty except for Killian’s car. That still doesn’t seem so pressing an issue at the moment - a moment that he doesn’t want to let slip through his fingers.

“The line’s moving,” Emma says. “I should get on it.”

“Or -”

Emma perks at that, and he doesn’t feel too forward when he says, “Or you could stay here with me.”

She bites at her lip. “I can’t leave my friends,” she says. She trails off and glances back towards the end of the line. “I can’t leave Walsh,” she adds.

She winces as she says the name.

Killian doesn’t because Emma says it with a wistfulness like she could leave them, could leave Walsh, whoever that is, behind and stay right here at his side. The hope he had twists into something else, a feeling to match the expression on her face when she finally looks at him.

“Go get them. I have a spot near the front,” he says.

He says it easily enough, but his hands itch to hold her back. Emma wavers, too, staring towards the line, but when she looks at him again, she nods her head, an understanding passing between them.

She’ll come back to him.

-

He finds Will with some difficulty given his penchant for hunching when he smokes, and there’s a taller crowd than usual. It takes a moment before he gives in and calls out for him, and only a moment after that for Will to raise his fist instead of answering like the asshole he is.

The line is moving slowly. Killian’s grateful for that because it takes Emma awhile - and a skipped heartbeat or two at the possibility that she’s changed her mind - to find them.

“Oi! Emma!” he calls out when he sees her.

Will, who hasn’t said anything, too busy trying to empty Killian’s flask, elbows him. “Emma, eh? She cute?”

“I will leave you to find your own way home,” Killian warns him, though he doubts that’s going to do much to dissuade him.

He expects Emma to be the first face he sees when the line opens up, but there’s an angry red in his vision, and though his blink lasts for less than a second, somehow the brunette with the red streak is right in his face.

“Hello, lass,” he greets to her invading form.

She narrows her eyes, but before she can say whatever sharp remark that’s waiting on the tip of her tongue, she’s pushed aside by another brunette with a soft smile and a diamond in her nose that glitters in the lamplight.

“It’s nice of you to let us do this. We didn’t think we’d get a good spot at all.” She pauses, looking about her, and exclaims, “Why is this crowd so tall?”

He shrugs in answer to her question, looking over the top of her head to the woman who’s finally decided to meet his eyes - soft apology in them - and the man hovering by her side. Killian may be the one inviting himself into their crowd, but this guy is the one who looks like he doesn’t belong. He could’ve been going to work in his buttoned high plaid and sensible shoes. It would be so easy for Killian to dismiss him from that alone, but he steps into Emma and she completely freezes like she isn’t sure whether to bolt or settle back into the closeness.

“Yes, thanks for doing this. Emma was really excited to see these bands. I’ve never heard of them, but -” He makes an awkward smile. “I only listen to the radio.”

“Right,” Killian says just as Will replies, “Is that AM radio or smooth jazz?”

Killian stops himself from hitting Will only because Will’s words pull a smile out of Emma, and she steps forward.

“This is Mary Margaret,” she says to the diamond studded brunette. To the one still watching him carefully, she says, “That’s Ruby.” She throws her elbow back. “Walsh.”

“The car was locked, but it’s always good to check,” another man says as he runs up to join their group.

“That’s David. I’m assuming that’s Scarlet,” she says.

“Killian been going on about me again? Wanker.”

“It was all good things,” Killian says. “I didn’t even tell her about the time you torched my car.”

“What did you tell her?” Ruby says, breaking her silence.

Emma’s quick to reply, “He’s here for the openers, too.”

“Really?” Ruby says, her voice lighter.

She grabs him by the elbow as the line starts to move - tactile she is - and starts to probe him with questions, her motives none too hidden. By the time they’ve gone through security and bought their overpriced shit beer and commented on the merch, Killian’s only had the chance to catch Emma’s eye once. She’d mouthed, “Sorry,” but Walsh started talking again and she was distracted.

Just his luck.

He can sense that there’s less to the relationship than Ruby’s guiding would have him believe. But it is a relationship and he shouldn’t intrude. Doesn’t stop him from wanting to, but that can’t be helped when Emma approached him, held his hand in hers, and smiled so sure that if he didn’t know a thing or two about masking insecurities would’ve led him to believe that there was nothing but certainty behind her green eyes.

Beer drunk and cups disposed of, they start the hassle of pushing their way as close to the front as possible. It isn’t as difficult as it would be at a bigger arena, less people having lined up yet to see the openers, more interested in the headlining band. There’s a good spot that fits all of them enough that they have elbow space, though that won’t last long once they cut the radio and set the stage.

Ruby wanders away for a moment to talk to Will (of all the messes to garner someone’s interest - not that he has room to judge). The space beside him becomes empty enough for him to feel the routine shiver of cold up his spine and the burn of heat at his blunted wrist. It always aches a little more when he’s alone in a crowd. He’d love to be someone to find relief in disappearing in it, but it’s just a stark reminder of how isolated he is from this world he’s supposed to love.

He lied to Emma. He’s here for Scarlet. He’s here for the openers. But then he isn’t really here at all, hasn’t been for too long a time.

He gets jostled and it draws him back. They made sure to have elbow room so he’s confused by the sudden crowding until he looks at the person beside him to find Emma there. Her presence grounds him, makes him feel _here_.

“Ruby didn’t ask too many pointed questions, did she?”

Killian smiles. “She didn’t ask me to recount every terrible misdeed I’ve committed since childhood, no.”

“Really? She did for me,” Emma replies airily.

Her giggle comes before his laughter, her delight coaxing out his own.

“And what of them, Emma? What are your crimes?”

Emma’s smile dims at that, her tone challenging when she replies, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Perhaps I would.”

She stares at him, the thinning of her lips the only sign that he’s affected her before he gets jostled again and they separate to make space for Walsh.

“Sorry,” Walsh apologizes.

It’s remarkable. He actually does sound sorry.

“Are you ready to lose yourself in the music?” Walsh asks.

Emma looks towards the stage, and the longing in her eyes is so clear that it echoes in Killian’s chest, a tightness that never passes but just gets easier to ignore.

When the stage lights go on, he’s blinded by white light before it fades from his vision. In the glow that comes after, her hair looks as bright and blue as the sea.

She flicks her head back to look at him, and in the glow, her eyes look like spring.

-

He’ll commend Will for once. He chose a good concert.

The openers are better than he could ever have hoped for and he’s hooked even when they cut their song short to rattle on about taking advantage of life, not settling for what it hands you, the old spiel “turn lemons to lemonade.” From them it sounds like a revelation.

For Killian, it feels like one.

It could be because Will filled his flask with rum he snagged off a college student, the circumstances of the encounter Killian refused to question. Killian takes a good swig of it before he passes it back.

It certainly could be because of that.

But he can’t lie to himself when he’s looking in Emma’s eyes, and she’s standing before Walsh now, enough that when she turns her head back, she can catch Killian’s eye.

And he can’t lie to himself at all when the openers finish and the crowd lulls for a bit while they change instruments and decor for the headliner. It’s quiet enough that Killian can hear when Walsh clears his throat and says, “I’m sorry, Emma. This is just not for me.”

Emma shrugs as she turns around, but her reassuring smile is reluctant.

“It’s okay. If you want to get out of the crowd, I understand.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone.”

To Killian’s utter fucking surprise, he turns to him and says, “You’re enjoying this right?” He looks over Killian for the first time since they’ve been introduced and says, “It’s your style. Would you mind staying with Emma?”

Killian’s jaw twitches. Not that he’s opposed to the idea, but the suggestion comes too easily, pawning off Emma to a guy she just met at a concert like she’s not worth even thinking the idea through at all.

Whatever there is between her and Walsh, Killian’s certain that it’ll never go beyond that. Not the way Emma nods, her hurt tucked behind a quietly offered, “You don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine on my own. It’s not like Ruby, Mary Margaret and David aren’t here.”

“I don’t mind,” Killian says. “It’s going to get pretty hard in here when they come on. I wouldn’t want her getting crushed or worse -”

“Worse?” Walsh asks.

“Getting showered in beer.”

His brow furrows in confusion when Emma laughs, high, sweet and _real_. He gets the sense that he’s been blessed with the sound as Walsh’s confusion becomes discomfort.

“Well, that makes sense…” Walsh nods. “Just text me when you guys are ready to go. I’ll be at the benches.”

He claps Killian on the back awkwardly. “Thanks for this.”

Killian doesn’t have an inoffensive reply to that so he says nothing at all, just steps forward so Walsh can slide past behind him.

Emma steps in beside him and says, “You really don’t have to guard me. I can take care of myself.”

“As I saw you jab your elbow in the side of that guy who got too pushy, I’m quite certain of that.”

“You saw that?”

“Saw it and heard it. He moaned quite a bit.”

She sighs and stretches her arms out before her as much as she can in the small space cleared by Walsh’s departure. Drawing them back, she toys with the band on her wrist. It’s the first time he sees the outline of the flower there and he wonders how many more she has beneath her tank top and tight jeans.

Maybe it’s just the one marking her skin.

“Well if you’re going to be my protector, you should step up behind me,” she says.

He doesn’t hesitate, which surprises her, a small gasp escaping her. It’s comfortable, the slight space between them, and then it’s intimate when she closes that space, pressing back against him and placing her hands on his wrists so that she can put his arms around her.

“This usually does the trick,” she says.

“Really?”

“David used to be my protector before he met Mary Margaret and _after_ I told him he needed to stop acting like I wouldn’t break someone’s nose if they stepped on me.”

“I see,” Killian says.

He doesn’t hear if she responds because the crowd roars to life when the stage lights turn blue and red. The space around them soon disappears and it’s hot, sweaty bodies choking out his breath yet again.

When he presses his chin against her hair, the inhales come easier.

Her hands soon lose his wrists and his touch is tentative. Unsure of what she wants (besides to stay with him because she made no mention of leaving with Walsh; she _stayed_ with him) Killian only places his hands on her waist.

Emma flips her head back and turns her chin up at him, her gaze questioning, but it isn’t the question he expects, not a hint of “what are you doing?” in her smile and the tilt of her eyebrow, just an invitation for more.

He can give more, feels like he can give everything under the flashing lights, the press of bodies, and the music so loud in his ears that his head swims.

Emma’s hair tickles his chin. It’s sweaty, but still smells a little like shampoo.

At some point, he does lose himself, but it’s not the music, not quite. It’s Emma, baring her neck to him. There’s no uncertainty to the kisses he places there, not when she arches back into him and tugs at his belt loops to keep him close. He’s well aware that his kisses are going to leave a mark, but he’s too weak to stop himself, and she certainly isn’t going to stop him, grinding against him the way she is.

They’re swaying but it’s not to any beat conjured by the band.

It’s only the jostling of the crowd that makes him stop, not wanting to get her or himself injured because he’s addicted to the salt of her skin.

Instead, he holds her waist tight to stop her from making this (and him) harder than it already is. He turns his head back for a moment, but there’s no way he can see her friends in the midst of all this. He settles his chin back on top of her head, resisting only for a span of breath before he places a kiss in her hair.

They stay like that through the last of the set and the unsurprising encore - the band has been good to them all night and the crowd’s known all the lyrics to every song, there’s no way they couldn’t come back to play the single that earned them this turnout.

They don’t part when the crowd starts towards the lot, mainly because people are too eager to get back to their cars before everyone else that he doesn’t want to lose her in it, being her protector and all that.

He tells her this when enough people have left that she can hear his voice again.

And he can hear hers, the laughed, “You’ve done a good job. My knight in shining armor. And look, not a drop of beer spilled on me.”

She steps away from him and he near loses his ability to speak at the way she looks at him, her face flushed and shining with sweat, her eyes searching his before she spreads her lips in a smile.

“Let’s go find your friends,” he says.

Her expression flickers at that and she says, “Yeah, I gotta text Walsh that we’re headed back to the car.”

He realizes that there are few people left in the arena, that the lights are turning down, that the night is ending. It’s ending, so maybe that’s what makes him throw caution to the wind more than he already has and ask, “Is he your boyfriend?”

“This is the second date,” Emma says.

He swallows, lets the silence linger just a little too long before he asks, “And will there be a third?”

She shrugs, which is not the answer he wants and it’s enough to break something in him just a little but he can see that she’s recognizing the ending, too.

It was probably too high a hope for him to think it would be a start.

Still, he thrusts his hand out, waiting for Emma to meet his eyes again. She does, asking, “Do you want me to shake your hand?”

“No, I want your phone.”

She lifts an eyebrow, sarcasm ripe on her tongue. “Is this what you do to all the girls you meet at concerts? Rob them when the night is through?”

“Will’s the pilferer,” Killian says. “I just want to key my number in.”

“Why?” Emma asks.

Her eyes trek over his face, and the question comes again, smaller but more direct. She’s looking for a sincere answer.

Sincerity is easy to give.

“I don’t want tonight to end.”

She stares at him and he wishes he could reach out to stroke his thumb over the pink line on her cheek. Wishes that she’d step in and tell him just why she chose that shade of blue for her hair, whisper about the tattoo on her wrist, the sadness in her gaze.

Instead she wordlessly hands him her phone.

He puts his full name in because that makes him feel like he’s actually here, that he’s not just Killian from that concert, but Killian Jones, alive and real.

He doesn’t ask her to give her number, leaves it up to her.

“Enjoy the rest of your night,” Emma says.

He lets her walk past him before he calls out, “I hope I will.”

He sees how her reply rolls off her shoulders, how it makes her tremble just for a moment before she sets herself forward again. He follows after she disappears, hand buried in his pocket, fingers running over the cool metal of the lighter.

He throws the pack of cigarettes out in the first can he sees.


End file.
